He Waits, I Sit
by reject187
Summary: I have scars everywhere. Scars of failure. Some from others, some from myself, and some that no one can see—not even me. And only time will tell if these scars ever come to the surface. Warning: Abuse, mentions of self-harm
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I also do not condone abuse or any questionable actions portrayed in this story. If you do not read about abuse, then don't read this. This story is written in a broken, memoir style. Constructive criticism is welcomed._

_. . . . . . . ._

Pain.

Right.

I am alive.

Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?

I can't help but wax existential at this point, it seems the thing to do.

Pain.

Oh, so much pain.

It's dark here, in the cupboard, but I can't help my involuntary reflex to put on my glasses. There. Now I can see much better. It's dark.

It had all started so innocently. I remember. I was four and a half. Uncle Vernon backhanded me when I accidentally broke a plate. I stumbled a few steps back, stepping on the shards. He shook me by the shoulders, shouting, then shoved me into my cupboard.

Right now, waiting for my sixth year of school to start, I am temporarily back in the cupboard.

….

It's the first week of school, and I am caught up with the rest of the students, bumbling along the hallways and laughing as we try to find our classes. I am relieved. No more hiding from Uncle Vernon, or swiping food from the trash, or sleepless nights. In two weeks most of my injuries will have faded and healed, and I will finally be able to wear short sleeves and not worry about knocking my bruises into the corners of tables.

But for these first two weeks, I am constantly on guard, making sure no one sees. I don't change in front of anyone, I shower alone, I don't pull up my sleeves. Which makes Potions bloody difficult, but still. Probably why I don't do as well in that class, not being able to focus for the first crucial weeks.

I know Snape watches me too, in those weeks. He is always harsh as ever, but for some reason I think he understands.

….

I remember glimpses. Hands everywhere. Feelings I don't want to feel. A sense of impurity—but gone as soon as I try to grasp it. They slide from my mind as more thoughts are brought to the surface—_Kill the spare!_—Sirius drifting through the veil—hunger and pain and loneliness—a pair of meaty hands around my neck —fear—a bright flash of green light—

Then release. I drop to the floor, panting, exhausted. It is halfway through the first semester of school and I am back in Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. Through the fringe of my hair, I look up at him.

He is silent.

He stands back a little, wand weakly poised for another round, his face showing slight horror and panic overshadowed by responsibility. I am also slightly panicked, hoping his usual gruff demeanor will overtake what he just saw.

"Expelliarmus", I pant, pointing my wand. A clack of wood on stone sounds my victory.

I pull myself up. "Goodnight, Professor."

As I close the door behind me, I hear, "Goodnight, Mr. Potter."


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you think you're doing, _freak!_" spits my uncle. I back into a corner of the kitchen, trembling. Only eight years old, I haven't yet figured out how to be a rock instead of a wave.

"You burned our breakfast, lazy git. I oughta whip your skinny hide." His voice grows more menacing, and I know he would do it. I begin to steel myself, preparing for another session over the living room couch with his belt…but then I see his eyes change, begin to glint mischievously.

Without warning, he grabs my right wrist and drags my hand over the still-hot electric coils on the stove. I struggle and scream, but it just seems to light up his eyes and he starts to laugh. After a minute he lets me go with an expression of disgust and a wad of spittle, exiting the room seemingly sated.

I cradle the hand, eyes streaming, looking around for anything to soothe the burn. I frantically turn on cold water, biting back wails of pain as the chill bites into the singed palm.

….

I awaken to a scream. It takes me a second to realize it is my own. I quickly quiet myself, panting heavily, pulling my knees up to my chest as to draw some comfort.

"Harry?"

Drat. "Yeah, Ron?"

"Everything all right?"

I pause. "Just a nightmare. I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to bed."

"What was it about?"

I freeze again, longer this time. "Uh, Sirius. Yeah."

"You were mumbling about your uncle."

I force a chuckle. "You know how dreams are. Goodnight, Ron." I throw up a silencing charm around my bed before Ron can say another word, and remind myself to continue doing so. No need to wake up and worry everyone in the castle.

….

"Harry, that's a funny scar you have there."

I turned to Ginny with a half-smile, hands still on my homework. "I have lots of scars. Which one are you talking about?"

She gently removes the quill from my hand and turns over the right hand. "This one, right here. It's a funny shape—kinda like a circle—"

I quickly jerk my calloused hand out of her soft ones. "It's nothing. Don't even remember how I got it."

"But Harry—" she protested, trying to study my hand again, "it looks so—painful…how could you not remember?"

I closed my eyes. "Ginny, do you love me?"

A pause. "Of course, Harry, but—"

"Then trust me. Please. I'll tell you when I'm ready."

I open my eyes, only to close them again when she comes closer and gently brushes her lips against mine. "All right, Harry Potter." She nudges her way under my arm and rests against my chest. "All right."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you to those who have been favoriting and/or following my story. Reviews are nice too. :)_

Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe. I feel like my eyes are going to pop from my head as I regret that the last thing I'll see will be Uncle Vernon's nostrils. My arms windmill weakly to hit him somewhere—anywhere—that would release me from his grasp.

For the first time in my short life, I am afraid that Vernon will kill me.

I flail blindly with residual remnants of strength, my sight slowly disappearing into blackness, breathless not only from being choked but also the fact that Vernon's portly mass is situated comfortably on my bony chest.

The next thing I know, Vernon is halfway across the room and I am backing into a corner. Looking back now, I know it was wandless magic. But at barely nine I don't know what it is called, or what happened, or if it was me. I just know that unless I get away quickly, I'll never find out.

….

"I am abused."

Haunted eyes stare back at me as I gaze into the mirror. The words feel foreign on my lips.

This shouldn't be a difficult thing to admit.

I am getting ready for a shower, that last time I was at my relatives' house, when my reflection screams for closer inspection. I can see every rib. My cheeks are sunken in. Bags under my eyes. Not to mention the numerous bruises fighting for attention, each a more sickly shade of purple or green than the last. I can feel my organs underneath my thin, paper-like skin.

"I am abused."

The words don't belong in the world. They shouldn't exist together. The air is fouled by them.

"Hurry up in there, you lazy, worthless git!"

I don't need any further prompting. Those words sound closer to normal than the ones I just spoke. I quickly jump into the shower for a tepid sprinkling before my uncle turns off the water or comes barging in.

….

"Mr. Potter," a voice gruffly addresses. I turn before I exit one of my last classes of the year.

"Yes, Professor?"

"My office. Now."

I meekly scramble toward Snape's office, adjacent to his classroom. The authoritative snap in his voice unleashes subconscious reactions. I find myself trying to become smaller than a cat, with all the reflexes thereof. A few months ago, I would have asked why, what he wants, all defiantly. One week before my return the Dursleys', I am already falling back into the attitudes that will be required of me during my stay.

The door swings shut with a small slam. I flinch, but quickly compose myself. What does he want with me?

"Mr. Potter. It has come to my attention that your behavior has been certainly odd, and not just of late."

My stomach feels like it is made of lead, my heart sinks like the Titanic. All the way down to the murky bottom, to lay there until the world is overturned. I do not answer.

"Mr. Potter. I do not play games; I do not waste time. Now will you please explain your behavior?" His voice snaps like darkness—smooth, even-keeled, and dangerous.

I still do not answer.

"I am speaking about your tendency to flinch at loud noises. The long sleeves at the beginning of the semester. Always having an excuse for injuries. Eating portions of food less than reasonable for your age…four weeks after school starts…and these last four weeks before the summer months."

My mouth opens slightly, like a gaping fish. I want to say something. I wish I could. I am actually stunned by how much he has noticed. I study the frayed edges of my shoelaces.

He waits.


	4. Chapter 4

I work my jaw up and down, willing myself to say something, wracking my brain for how to respond. My mind races through a zillion questions and answers, trying to find the best way to address this teacher.

A sigh. "Very well, then, Mr. Pott—"

"Yes." My eyes suddenly meet his cold, dark ones. I feel my spine going rigid, holding my head high as I straighten. "What you say is true. What is your question?"

I hold my breath. I have decided that if he specifically asks, I will be honest. This scares me more than anything…that he might know.

"Mr. Potter…you are trembling. Please, sit." A fleeting tone of kindness I have not heard from his lips before. Did I just imagine…

"Sit!"

Maybe not. My body unceremoniously meets leather as I plop into the indicated chair. I grip the armrest until my knuckles turn white.

"Now, Mr. Potter, please answer my questions honestly. Would you like me to soundproof the office?"

I nod nervously, still shaken up from his sudden command.

He quickly casts a charm. "Mr. Potter. I do want to apologize for my outburst. I will have you know that I am accustomed to dealing with students who have expressed your symptoms." He pauses. "I will not pity you, Mr. Potter, for the life you have led. I never do. I will do my best to assist you in what ways you wish if I deem it necessary."

….

"Harry! Harry, are you alright?"

I hang my head, angling away from Mrs. Chappell, my third grade teacher. "Yes, ma'am, I'm fine."

She gently takes my chin and guides until I am looking her in the eye. Her fingers brush my eye, and I flinch. "You didn't get that bruise from being fine."

"I…I got into a fight with Dudley." That was close enough.

She looks at me skeptically. "You seem to be getting into a lot of fights with your cousin lately."

"W…we've never really gotten along."

"And why is that?" Her tone was not accusatory, just curious.

"Aunt Petunia doesn't like Dudley to be friends with Freaks." My eyes widen involuntarily and I clap my hands over my mouth, horrified at my casual slip of tongue.

Mrs. Chappell's eyes narrow slightly as she lets go of my chin. I back away slowly, terrified of the new look on her face. "M…Mrs. Chappell?"

"Everything is fine, Harry," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Go ahead to recess, then."

….

When I get home that night, two men in uniforms are asking Aunt Petunia questions. She glares at me as I come in the door. I quietly close the door and head toward my closet, until I catch a significant glance from Aunt Petunia. She jerks her head to the stairs between nodding and looking sweet and innocent and concerned for the officers.

I nod once to indicate that I understand and start sneaking upstairs. The policemen continue to talk to Aunt Petunia while she nods, lips in a tight smile and arms folded across her chest. I tiptoe up the stairs, skipping the creaky steps, trying to avoid notice by the officers.

About halfway up, I step on a squeaky stair.

I wince. Immediately, one of the men looks toward where I am standing. Frozen to the step, one hand on the rail, I look up the stairs, trying to get up the courage to continue climbing.

"You there, what's your name?" the larger one bellows.

My heart catches in my throat as I frantically look toward my aunt.

"Oh, that's just—Gerald, a…cousin, visiting London for the first time—from the country!"

The officer squints at me. "Last name?"

I gulp. "F-f-Fitzsimmons, sir."

His eyes narrow into even tinier slits, if possible. "And why were you sneaking up the stairs?"

"L-l-loo, sir. I'm very sorry, sir, I have to go!" And with that, I bolt up the stairs and lock myself into the bathroom, thanking all higher powers that no one else is home and I got away from them. I know the punishment is going to be bad…just not how bad it will be.


	5. Chapter 5

_As of now, this is the last chapter. Thank you for those who have enjoyed my perspective on this. Especially those who have favorited and/or followed, and those who have reviewed. _

. . . . . . . .

Since it involved the school, it was schoolwork. Dudley's school work, to be precise. A whole month of it, plus extra chores. The police must have scared her enough to convince Vernon to not physically punish me, so for a while, I am hopeful.

How wrong young me could be.

I do my best, double check each footfall before I even take one step, pray every night, and make sure every chore on my list for the day is crossed off and checked by Aunt Petunia. I thought it would be enough. I didn't realize it was just the clock ticking by time until it ran out at an undetermined interval. And when it ran down—boy did it explode.

I had finished watering the plants outside, after dark, of course. The police incident had blown over. Aunt Petunia had even given me a pair of newer pants because they didn't fit Dudley anymore.

And then disaster struck.

I had become careless. Forgot to wipe my feet before stepping into the house. I had spread new dirt a few days ago for planting and grass, as Aunt Petunia did "so love plants and flowers". In watering, that dirt made the obvious evolution into mud. I tried scraping the shoes on the grass while wrapping up the hose, but I was so distracted by the hunger in my belly that I neglected to take my shoes off before entering the house.

I took one step into the house. One step. I froze, instantly realizing what I had done. Aunt Petunia loved her white carpet. I lifted my foot, saw the brown stain shaped like my shoe, and panicked.

Uncle Vernon was sitting at the kitchen table with a late-night ice cream snack, facing the back door. He saw the look on my face, my feet, and a smile not unlike a snake's grew cruelly on his face.

Uncle Vernon lunged at me, pulling my slightly-large pants down to the ground, which tripped me. I fell hard, knocking the wind out of me, which gave Vernon just enough time to get his thick hands around my neck with his thick body comfortably situated on my chest.

…..

I have tried some things. Trying to forget, to cope, to punish myself for being a…a…but no matter. Whatever I did, it was never enough. I was too weak to go through with anything.

Being the perfect son, servant, groveling slave didn't work.

Being the rebellious teenager didn't work.

Punishing my own flesh didn't work.

I have scars everywhere. Scars of failure. Some from others, some from myself, and some that no one can see—not even me. And only time will tell if these scars ever come to the surface.

But that is what Snape is trying to make me do. Bring the scars up. He stares at me from across the desk, hands folded. Waiting.

The clock ticks in the corner, with every second louder than the last.

He waits. I sit.

Part of me illogically believes that if I don't talk about it, everything will be okay. It didn't actually happen. I can go on pretending that my life is normal; that my relatives love me, that I have parents who are alive and want me, and that I have a pink sparkly pony named Pinky.

If I talk about it, it exists and it happened, and I don't want it to exist.

He waits.

I sit.


End file.
